by Pamela Morsi
Esme stopped momentarily to let her words sink in. "For years she's been dreaming of you, but you've never approached her."
"So now she wants to approach me?"
Esme appeared horrified. "Oh, no! She's much too genteel to ever speak to you herself."
Armon's eyes brightened. "So she asked you to speak for her?"
"Certainly not!" Esme's tone indicated that she was appalled at the suggestion. "She would be horrified if she ever learned that I'd mentioned this to you." And then more quietly she added, "You must never breathe a word of it."
Armon began to tire of the game. "How do you expect me not to tell her, when I don't even know who she is?"
“Well, you don't expect me just to blurt out her name, do you?" Esme asked.
"How about a hint, then?"
Esme considered his suggestion carefully, as if she'd never thought of it herself. Finally she sighed, as if losing a battle with her conscience. "All right," she said. "I'll give you some hints, but I will not tell you if you are right or wrong."
"Fair enough." Armon struck the bargain easily.
"Let's see," Esme began. "She's a young woman who is exceptionally attractive."
"Must not be from Vader, then," Armon joked. When his chuckle was met by Esme's stony look, he backed down. "Okay," he said noncommittally.
"She's not seeing anyone at the present time, but she suffered a very recent loss of a sweetheart."
Armon's brow furrowed as if deep in thought. Esme looked at him hopefully, but the young man shook his head.
"Could be a lot of gals," he said.
"She—" Esme tried to think of something else to hint. Armon was dense. "Oh, she plays the piano."
Armon's grin was wry, and his answer was sarcastic. "Half the women in these hills think they can play the piano. A man don't look at the piano when he's thinking about a woman."
"Oh, for heaven's sake." Esme was clearly getting frustrated.
"She has red hair," she said with an edge of temper. If he couldn't get that, he must be a complete dolt.
"Red hair?" Armon looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. "I don't know any gals with red hair," he said.
"Of course you do!" Esme insisted.
"Well," he said, after thinking a moment, "there's that old whore down by Collins Crossing. But I'm pretty sure her red hair comes out of a bottle."
"Do you think such a woman would be a friend of mine?" Esme asked with fury.
"No, ma'am," Armon answered. "But you're the one that brought up the red hair, and she's the only red-haired woman I know."
"You do know another young woman with red hair!" Esme told him.
"Nope," Armon replied obstinately. "Can't think of nary a one."
Esme gritted her teeth with frustration. "All right," she said between clenched jaws. "One more hint If you can't get it this time, I'm giving up."
Armon shrugged.
"She's the daughter of a preacher."
Armon stared dumbly at her for a moment, then his eyes widened in shock. "Tits Tewksbury?" he whispered, the tone of his question incredulous.
Esme frowned at the vulgar nickname.
Glancing down the hill toward the women's foot washing, Armon's expression was one of disbelief.
"I cain't believe it. Miss Esme," he said sincerely. "That gal ain't never give me so much as the time of day."
"I'm not saying a word," Esme told him, reeking of guile. "A lady's heart is involved, and I wouldn't want to in any way cause it to be broken."
Shaking his head in disbelief, Armon was clearly pole-axed. "Miss, uh, I mean Miz Rhy," he said, "I'll never breathe a word of what you tole me. But I do thank you for letting me know." His smile was joyous.
"Them ladies, they ain't like gals," he said. "You cain't even get an inkling of what they's a-thinking."
The crowds were breaking up, and Esme took her leave quickly.
If Armon couldn't get an inkling of what a lady was thinking, that must mean she was a lady, Esme thought to herself. Because Armon surely wouldn't have been smiling if he could have read her mind.
Esme hummed a cheery tune as she hurried to join her husband. If Sophrona had slapped Cleav for a gentle kiss, she'd probably break Armon Hightower's jaw.
The idea appealed to her.
The Reverend Wilbur Boatwright was a short, balding man with a florid complexion and a pure white handlebar moustache. What the middle-aged evangelist lacked in pulpit presence, he managed to make up for with a booming set of vocal cords.
Cleav and Esme found seats near the middle of the third row. Yohan deserted them for the male camaraderie of the hastily constructed "amen corner."
Only a couple of dozen benches were available, and with everybody within ten miles showing up, the place was crowded. Esme was jostled more than once as worshipers shoved into the row and she found herself plastered right up against her husband.
"Do you mind?" Cleav asked as he slipped his arm around her to give her more room.
"It's fine," Esme whispered, and they both heard an utter from behind them.
The twins sat on either side of Armon, and he was holding both snugly at the waist.
"You don't have to ask permission, no more," Armon told Cleav. "You're a husband now, and husbands do what they want."
The twins sighed adoringly and leaned even closer against him. It was all Esme could do not to pull away from Cleav's light embrace.
"Pay him no mind, Hillbaby," Cleav whispered.
The sweet endearment brought a bright blaze of color to Esme's cheek.
Cleav grinned.
The teasing lightened the tension between them, and Esme found herself leaning against him even more closely than necessary.
There was no piano in the brush arbor, so Miss Sophrona was not in sight. There were no songbooks to follow, but when Brother Oswald led the singing, Esme felt the warm spirit of shared harmony enfold her.
Cleavis, his arm still encircling his new wife, felt peaceful for the first time in days.
When the evangelist, Brother Wilbur, took his place behind the pulpit, he quickly read the scripture before stepping down by the altar and surveying the crowd.
''You are farmers!'' he screamed at them. “When you put seed in the ground, you expect it to grow!"
He had clearly caught the attention of the crowd, who were now all silently staring at him.
"Why?" he asked more quietly. "Why do you expect it to grow?" He indicated an old man in the front row for his question, but then answered it himself. "You expect it to grow," he shouted again, "because the Lord promised you that it would'"
Cleav's moment of serenity had passed abruptly, and he was now wishing that he'd chosen to sit farther toward the back. He considered himself a religious man, but evangelical fervor always seemed a mirage of righteousness rather than evidence of it.
Righteousness, he decided as he sat politely watching the little preacher pace frantically back and forth across the room at top volume, was nothing more than doing what you know is right. Even when doing it hurts you.
No, righteousness was no big mystery. It was love that was so difficult to understand.
He looked down at his wife beside him. Esme's hands sat idly in her lap and without thinking, Cleav allowed his right hand to join them.
Esme glanced up with surprise that quickly turned to pleasure. She gently caressed her husband's palm and held on to him with both hands.
The congregation was obliged to rise for prayer. Cleav and Esme, still clutching hands, bowed their heads with the rest. As the preacher droned on about the needs of the world and the people in it, both Cleav and Esme tried to concentrate on something besides each other.
When the prayer was over and the “amens” were spoken, both took their seats, but Brother Wilbur's tirade from the pulpit continued unflagging for well over an hour. Carefully manipulating the emotions of the crowd, the preacher had them yearning for the gentle "shepherd of men" one moment and fearing the wrathful k
ing determined to cast sinners into the "lake of fire" the next.
Notes were passed from one youthful hand to another. Babies, their sleep disturbed by the noise and excitement, fussed and squalled in turn. Old Man Tyree fell asleep and began snoring loudly. And Garner Broadwick carved his name in the right rear arbor pole.
As the service reached a crescendo, the frequent "amens" were joined by shouts. Youngsters on the back rows eagerly watched the proceedings in hopes of seeing a fainting zealot or hearing someone speak in tongues. Jimmy Milo bet Noch Gingrich his best cat's-eye marble that when the women fell on the floor, they pulled up their skirts. Noch bet eagerly, feeling, right or wrong, he could hardly lose.
On this first night of the revival the boys were doomed to disappointment. When the invitation was given, only three people went to kneel at the unfinished pine bench that served as the altar.
A seven-year-old girl was seeking redemption from sin. Tearfully, the cotton-headed child confessed that her life of sin so far had led her to hide in the cellar when her mother called her to help with the laundry.
A thin, frightened young mother was worried about her sick baby. The child was the only one of her three that had been spared the measles last fall, and now he was looking mighty peaked. Pearly Beachum got up and put a consoling arm around the woman and promised her that they would take the child to see Old Grandma Woolsy the next day and get the baby a tonic.
The other mourner at the bench was the ancient, half-crippled Nola Hightower. The distraught woman, not a day under seventy, cried until little puddles seeped along the raw blond pine.
"Dear Sister, dear Sister," Brother Wilbur said as he attempted to help the old woman to her feet. The matron was amply nourished and hadn't been down on her weak, aged knees in a month of Sundays. Not even with the help of the preacher and her two canes could she rise to her feet. Finally, a man in the first row rose to help, and they managed to get her to a standing position.
"Dear Sister," Brother Wilbur began again, "tell us your name and the burden that's on your heart tonight."
"Speak up, Miz Hightower," another admonished. "We're all brothers and sisters here in the Lord."
Poor old lady Hightower could hardly speak but managed to choke out her name as she gained her composure. She was no public speaker, but she was far from shy and had lived too long to be intimidated by a crowd.
"Your message, Brother Wilbur," she said finally. "Lord, it really touched my heart tonight"
"Amen!" was heard throughout the crowd.
"You're a-talking 'bout the promises we make to the Lord," she said. "And the promises he makes to us."
The woman shook her head sadly and looked over the room. “Well, the Lord made a promise to me, writ right thar in the Good Book," she stated. "I know he keeps his promises."
"That he does, Sister," Brother Wilbur agreed.
"Tonight, I'm praying that he'll keep this one while I'm still alive to see it."
A murmur went through the crowd. Speculation. What could the Good Book have promised Nola Hightower?
"We can't know the time or the season that God works his miracles," Brother Wilbur warned. "The Bible says we must 'wait upon the Lord.'"
The old woman nodded. "I know that's true," Mrs. Hightower admitted. "But I've been waiting nigh on to twenty years. I ain't sure I got much wait left in me."
Brother Wilbur gave the woman a comforting pat on the shoulder. "You may outlive us all," he told her.
Nola Hightower ignored him. She raised her eyes to the crowd. "When my boy Ephraim died," she began, "I was plumb tore up with grief."
Other women among the congregation who'd lost children of their own made sympathetic noises.
"I promised my son," Nola Hightower continued, "to take care of his baby boy, a motherless orphan."
A strange hush came over the crowd. Cleav swallowed and gave Esme a nervous look.
"I done all I could for that boy," the old woman said. "I weren't young anymore, but I raised him same as I did my own." The old lady's sigh was pitiable. "Now, the Bible done promised me," she said, "that if I raised up a child in the way he should go, then he'd sure enough go that way when he got growed."
Surreptitiously numerous members of the crowd began to glance toward the center of the fourth row.
"Tonight I'm praying that heaven will touch the black, sinning heart of my grandson, Armon Hightower, and lead him to get right with the Lord. I ain't going to live forever, and before I go to meet my Maker, I want to see that boy on the straight and narrow."
Cleav and Esme joined the rest of the crowd in turning to look at the young man behind them. The twins were both sober and flushed. Between them, Armon sat uncomfortably as a vivid red stain crept up his neck.
Even Esme felt sorry for him.
Chapter Seventeen
A large black cloud had formed on the western horizon, but the moon still shone bright enough to illuminate the summer night as the crowd dispersed down the little knoll and through the tiny town. Esme walked beside Cleav, her hand on his arm in the proper position of the escorted. Behind them, Yohan and Eula were muttering together about the surprising end of the first night of the revival. Agrippa seemed stunned into silence.
When they reached the turnoff for the house, Cleav hesitated.
"Why don't you all go on home," he suggested to his mother and in-laws. "Esme and I are going to check on the ponds."
"Check on the ponds?" Eula asked incredulously.
Yohan chuckled. "What in tarnation can you do for fish in the middle of the night?"
"Looks like a bad storm coming in from the west, and I don't want any of the dams to give. I'd surely hate to lose half my trout downstream."
As they separated from the group, Cleav cast an eye to his wife. Neither knew exactly what to say. Though they'd flirted with each other during the revival meeting, this was different. It seemed so long since they'd truly been alone together. The silence between them continued for several yards.
"You don't have to come with me if you're too tired, Esme," he said, hoping she'd stay.
Esme smiled at him shyly. "I was hoping we'd have a moment"
Cleav nodded with appropriate gravity. "It does seem we are somewhat short on those these days."
She agreed silently.
The moonlight shone across the water like a path to another world. The wind had picked up, and the smell of rain floated on it. They walked together quietly along the shore, lost in their own thoughts. Cleav stopped to inspect each of the earth, wood, and screen constructed dams that he'd built between the ponds.
Having constructed the system with his bare hands, it was solid and strong. Still, because he was a man who took his responsibilities seriously, Cleav tried to check the water-breaks carefully before each rainstorm. He'd learned the hard way that one weak-jointed corner could destroy a whole season's work.
Esme followed along with him, occasionally helping, but mostly just observing. In tonight's thoughtful mood she was amazed to find herself married to Cleavis Rhy. Only last winter she had hardly given him a second look. Now she couldn't take her eyes off him.
Carefully he made his way from one pond to the next. The ominous rumble of a thunderstorm could be heard now, but it was still far away. And he was so near.
He was quiet again tonight. He'd grown too quiet these days, and Esme worried. When he came to her at night there was warmth and wonder, but he held himself from her—she felt it.
Was it because she was so unladylike? She feared it might be so. Surely a lady didn't caterwaul until her husband had to cover her mouth to keep her from waking the house.
Still, Cleav never complained about the way she acted. In fact, she got the distinct feeling that he actually liked it.
A tiny thrill of desire spiraled through her. He hadn't sent her on to the house ahead of him. Maybe he had plans for tonight.
"Save to graces," Esme said abruptly, hoping to sidetrack her wayward thoughts with an attempt at live
ly conversation. "That Grandma Hightower was sure a spectacle tonight, wasn't she?"
Cleav looked up from the wire screen he was inspecting and smiled. "I swear, I don't think I'll ever feel more sorry for Armon Hightower than I did this evening."
They laughed together in remembrance, and their humor bridged the uneasy distance between them.
"He did look a guilty sight, didn't he?"
Cleav agreed.
"Wonder why she did it?" Esme asked more seriously. "Surely she knew it would embarrass the daylights out of him."
Cleav shook his head. "She thought she'd give a little push. People do that sometimes."
Esme nodded thoughtfully. "I'm even guilty of that myself," she admitted, thinking of all the deliberate glimpses of her legs that she'd given Cleav. If she'd waited for the spirit to move Cleavis Rhy, she'd have died an old maid, living in a cave with Pa.
"We all are," Cleav answered, squeezing her hand gently in reassurance before releasing it to wrap his arm familiarly around her waist.
"You can want something so much," he said, his eyes caressing the curve of her jaw, "that you forget that it's what you want, maybe not what's meant to be."
Uncomfortable with her own thoughts, and not wanting to pursue this line of conversation, Esme rushed to return to the original discussion.
"You'd think Miz Hightower'd know better," Esme insisted.
"She does," Cleav replied. "But she also knows that sometimes it works. Sometimes it's part of the plan after all."
Esme turned to face him. The silvery moonlight lit his face in handsome heights and hollows. In the distance the rumble of thunder was premonitory.
"Do you think we are part of the plan?" she asked, a tremor of concern in her voice. "Do you think our marriage was meant to be?"
Cleav gazed down at her, the eyes so wide in worried question, the cheeks so hollow without hint of smile, and the lips, so sweet in his remembrance that he didn't even try to hesitate as he brought down his own for a gentle kiss.
"Our marriage is, Esme," he whispered softly.
Esme wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his throat. He'd spoken so sweetly she'd felt overwhelmed, though she wasn't sure if he was happy or sad.